


Better With Company

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sickfic, Teacher Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a very particular neighbor. The kind that is very predictable. Always retrieves the newspaper at six-fifteen and out the door by seven. Always home by five and gets the mail at six. He never imagined that such a fixed figure in his daily life could get, you know, <i>sick.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Better With Company

Sam has a very particular neighbor.

The kind that is very predictable. Always retrieves the newspaper at six-fifteen and out the door by seven. Always home by five and gets the mail at six. Always wearing slight variations of the same outfit–black pants, white shirt, dark-colored tie and a tan coat in the winter.

A very particular, robotic neighbor.

Sam’s only met him a handful of times. He’s nice, if a little strange. He never put much thought into the life of his neighbor Castiel until one day, when he notices that the paper was still on the end of the driveway. He thinks nothing of it until it happens again.

And again.

Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen the man at all these past few days.

No wonder Sam’s been feeling a little off–the man’s schedule adds a little structure to his own life. Something stable and reliable.

He decides while reviewing his case notes for the next day after dinner that he’ll do the neighborly kindness and bring Castiel his mail.

There’s about a big stack of letters and catalogues curled in the mailbox, struggling to fit in, and three newspapers on the corner of the driveway. Sam gathers them all into his arms and knocks on Castiel’s door.

No answer.

He rings the doorbell.

Still nothing.

He sighs, bending at the knee to pile the mail under the shelter of porch when the door lock turns, metal scraping metal. The lock releases, the door swings open a foot.

Sam snaps up, mail still clutched against his chest. “Uh–!”

His neighbor peers through the narrow opening, and he’s nothing like Sam’s ever seen before. Crisp button-up shirt replaced by a heather gray shirt that hangs off his frame, sweatpants and bare feet that peek out the bottoms. Though nothing strikes Sam the most than Castiel’s face. Dark messy hair that sticks up in all directions, stubble that probably doesn’t qualify as 5 o’clock shadow anymore, and skin that’s simultaneously pale and red at the tip of his nose and ears. Blue eyes that glare at him. Still ridiculously handsome.

He sniffles.

“Here’s your mail,” Sam says, gesturing with his arms full. The man looks so tired, the lines on his face are so apparent. “Are you okay?”

“I’m ill,” Castiel replies, voice even more like gravel due to being sick.

“Cold?”

“Influenza.”

“Oh, that’s rough.”

“I know,” his neighbor nods, a little sarcastic. “Thank you for getting the mail.”

Castiel holds his arms out to receive it and Sam sees that his hands are shaking slightly. Well, all of him is shivering. He looks very weak.

“No, I can carry it in for you.”

The man nods, stepping to the side to allow Sam in.

Castiel’s house is almost exactly how Sam assumed it would be. Well furnished but not too crowded like his own home. Meticulously organized, not a thing out of place. The whole place is perfect except the living room, which looks like it’s where Castiel has been living over the past three days. Blankets strewn across the couch, empty tissue boxes, and empty water glasses cluttering up the coffee table.

“On the table is fine. I’ll get to it eventually,” Castiel tells him, moving forward before plopping gracelessly on the couch. The motion brings him to a coughing fit, so hard it wracks his body. A small groan escapes when it finally subsides.

“Sounds pretty bad.”

“I normally do not get the flu, but the strain going around school is a vicious one.”

“Do you need anything?” Sam asks, feeling bad for the man. If there are this many glasses lying about, there should be plates. But there aren’t, meaning the man isn’t eating.

“No thank you,” he answers before blowing his nose. “You’ve done enough.”

But Sam doesn’t feel like he’s doing enough. So he returns an hour later with some warmed up soup from a box in the back of his pantry. And some bananas, crackers and half of his orange juice poured into a different container. He figures that even if he has food to eat, he probably doesn’t have enough energy to make it.

Castiel eyes him from the crack of the door, says nothing and lets him in.

Just like he guessed, there’s not a lot in Castiel’s fridge. Some milk, bagged salad, slices of cheese and deli meats, and some fancy imported beer towards the back, among other things.

Sam doesn’t mention anything. After searching the kitchen for utensils and such, he brings the man some food, sitting on the far armchair after safely handing it off to Castiel. 

The clock over the fireplace chimes on the quarter-hour, the television’s volume is low. Sam watches the closed captioning of a news broadcast and listens to the gentle scraping of a spoon on porcelain.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Castiel asks, peering over at him.

“What?”

“You don’t have to stay. Though it’s nice to have company, I don’t want to get you sick or keep you if you’re busy.”

Sam thinks about the work he should be doing. He’s got another case in a few days, defending some guy accused of fraud, and he’s got a pile of notes to look over by then. But his neighbor mentioned that his presence is ‘nice’ so there’s really no argument. “It’s okay.”

Castiel finishes the soup and nibbles at some crackers, the programming on the television has rolled over to a documentary about sustainable energy. When Sam looks over half an hour later, his neighbor is snoring softly, arm bent awkwardly underneath himself.

Sam silently lets himself out of the house, but not before clearing the dishes to the kitchen sink and pulling a blanket over him.

All throughout work the next day, Sam wonders how Castiel is doing. If he’s eaten. If he’s drank enough water. If he needs more toast and orange juice. When he gets home, he tosses his briefcase into the front hall and traverses their lawns. He knocks, but then tries the handle. The front door is unlocked, which was unsafe but Sam couldn’t lock it behind himself the evening before.

Castiel is still on the couch, but it’s clear that he’s moved enough to take a shower and change clothes. A blue eye cracks open at the sound of Sam’s footsteps.

“Hello,” his neighbor tries, but he loses his voice halfway through and it just comes out like “hell.”

Sam forgoes asking how he’s feeling since it’s a little obvious by Castiel just laying like a dead man on the couch surrounded by tissues. “Do you need anything?”

For a moment, he’s afraid that Castiel will say no out of politeness, but he’s pleasantly surprised. “Juice would be nice, if you’re offering.”

There’s no more plates in the sink than when Sam left the night before, causing Sam to frown. Castiel is sitting up when he returns with two glasses of orange juice, one for each of them, and toast and a sliced up green apple on a plate, which Castiel eats gratefully.

“I bet the kids really miss you in class,” Sam says after a time. It’s been almost a full week since Castiel has gone to work, into the local high school to teach English Literature.

“Probably not.” He coughs. “They’re probably having fun terrorizing the substitute.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Did you–” he sneezes, quickly snatching a tissue out of the nearest box. “Excuse me. Did you do that? Terrorize your teachers?”

“No, but man, my brother did. All the time.” Sam pauses to think. “Well, there was this one teacher, but she had it coming.”

“You’re terrible,” Castiel says, still lighthearted.

“Hear me out. She was pretty nasty and just made life incredibly hard for the whole class, even the kids who paid attention. She practically blamed everyone for the actions of a few…”

“I know a few teachers like that as well. Tell me more.”

“Well…”

It’s late into the night, much later than he ever thought he’d stay, when Sam leaves Castiel’s house. Somehow the topic had gone from terrible teachers to terrible work stories to exchanging life experiences, with a few side trips to “favorite place you’ve been” and “why the hell did you choose this town to live in?” Castiel fell asleep mid-conversation, drugged from another dose of Tamiflu and Advil PM. It’s dark and Sam steps carefully through the grass and hoping he doesn’t crush his neighbor’s petunias on the way home.

He really enjoyed their conversation, having someone to sit and talk with so comfortably, and someone take care of. Castiel may be strange, may be quiet, but he’s really a pleasure to talk to and very personable, even when he’s sick and drowsy from drugs.

On Sunday morning, at seven sharp, there’s a knock on Sam’s door. He stumbles through the house, having stayed up late looking through past cases for his court defense. When the heavy door swings open, he has to blink.

Castiel stands on his doorstep, clad not in sweats but dark jeans and a better-fitting shirt. A plastic bag dangles from his grip. He clears his throat. “I brought your tupperware back. It’s clean.”

“Oh? Oh, thanks,” Sam returns, taking it from him. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Thanks to you.”

“What?”

“Thanks… for bringing me things, and staying with me. I don’t normally fall ill, but when I do, it hits very hard.”

“No problem,” Sam says, shyly edging around the fact that he kind of creepily took it upon himself to take care of his neighbor that he’s rarely talked to outside of neighborhood picnics and homeowner association meetings.

Castiel must feel the awkwardness too. He straightens his back and turns away. “I’ll see you around.”

His neighbor is halfway down his front path when Sam finds his words. “Hey–” The man freezes mid-step, turning on his heels to hear him out. “If you want, I mean, if you still want company, just, uhm, let me know.”

“Well, considering I’ve developed an appetite and a strange craving for pizza, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“Sure,” Sam smiles and watches his neighbor cut through the grassy lawns back to his house.

Sam has a very particular neighbor

One that is not so robotic anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to Tumblr  
> come find me there @ GhostGarrison


End file.
